The Breakfast Club: They can dish it out, but can they take it?

Since this Labor Day represents the unofficial end of summer and start of the school year, it seems the perfect time to explore a beloved–but imperfect–movie about the difficulties teenagers face at school: 1985′s The Breakfast Club.  This also serves as a partial homage to the recently deceased John Hughes, who wrote and directed numerous quality films in the 1980s.  Further explorations of his movies will follow.
The Brat Pack, in all their glory
The Brat Pack, in all their glory

Rating: two 1/2 stars (out of four)

John Hughes’s The Breakfast Clubhas become something of a cult classic in the decades since its 1985 release, equaling or surpassing other pictures from this talented writer, at least in the public’s eye.  In it, five high school students, who conveniently represent a few of their student body’s cliques, have been forced to spend one precious Saturday in detention.  There’s the jock, Andrew (Emilio Estevez); the princess, Claire (Molly Ringwald); the brain, Brian (Anthony Michael Hall); the weirdo, Allison (Ally Sheedy); and the criminal, Bender (Judd Nelson).

As a film, The Breakfast Cluboccupies a critical point in movie history.  The actors were all “Brat Pack” regulars—for Hughes favorite Ringwald, this bracketed Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink, and Sheedy, Nelson, and Estevez would star, with others, in the awful St. Elmo’s Fire later the same year.  As Roger Ebert pointed out, it’s an “all-star cast” of younger actors, and the film is worth watching for anyone about to enter high school, but not as much as, say, Mean Girls.  Ultimately, it’s a frustrating, contradictory movie, not nearly as consistent as other Hughes works Sixteen Candles and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or as heartwarming as Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.   

The stereotypical classifications of the main characters are meant to represent both the way the school principal Richard Vernon (Paul Gleason) and their fellow inmates view them.  The entire movie takes place at school during the day, almost all of that inside the library, where these five challenge each other’s misconceptions of themselves.  Learning tolerance, Hughes tells us, is a lot easier when you want others to view you more sympathetically. 

The de facto leader of the group is Bender, the obnoxious, loud, arrogant, and generally rebellious student who manages to infuriate everyone within about 15 minutes.  Bender, though not uninteresting, is a bit of a contrived character.  Judd Nelson does what he can with the character, and it’s not unrealistic for a high school detention to feature someone like him, but some of his antics feel forced, thrown in by Hughes to keep the plot moving.  

Though I’ll give the movie credit for not going the route of The Graduateby refusing to anoint the adults with first names, it’s difficult to deny that the principal is a hopeless caricature.  I suppose that’s the point, but it makes for quite a one-sided viewpoint.  Some of the things Vernon says to Bender have merit—in particular “You ought to spend a little more time trying to do something with yourself and a little less time trying to impress people.”—but it’s tough to take them seriously when he follows them with a promise to start “cracking skulls” the next time they misbehave.  Likewise, his fighting words to Bender later on in the film feel as out of place as the fight between Richard Gere and Lou Gossett at the end of An Officer and a Gentleman.  Andrew fighting Bender makes sense; the principal taunting him doesn’t.

A more balanced perspective is shown towards the faceless parents of the students.  Though everyone, naturally, professes to not get along with his or hers—If I said that I did, says Andrew, “you’d think I was an idiot.”—they’re not necessarily the problems in the kids’ lives.  Brian, we can infer, has supportive, loving parents; they may be overly concerned about grades, or he may just think they’re overly concerned about grades.  Likewise, Claire doesn’t like her parents, but it becomes clear that she has bigger issues with her friends and her school. 

A little less credible, though, are the personas of Andrew’s father, who demands athletic success from him, or Bender’s, who abuses him.  Those stock types could be believable if the film did something with them, but they’re just slipped in towards the end to try to make us view each person a little more sympathetically.

Hughes adds a few nice touches along the way to keep things interesting.  I admire his willingness to keep the entire film moderately paced, in one setting, with no special effects whatsoever.  I also like the use of music, as the students dance, whistle, or air guitar to the songs playing in the background.  Credit is also due to his inclusion of one of my favorite characters in movies, period, the “weirdo” played by Ally Sheedy.  The film’s most satisfying moments almost all involve her—when she empties her bag onto a couch and explains its contents, when she reveals why she’s in detention (a truly fantastic moment), and when Claire transforms her appearance to uncover physical beauty that had lain dormant.

Unfortunately, the film doesn’t manage to quite transform anyone emotionally quite as much.  Because of its lack of special effects and series of conversations between people attempting to get under the other’s skin, it reminded me in some ways of Closer, but it manages to convey neither that film’s great sense of atmosphere and mood nor its heart.  Closer revealed the emotional breaking points of all of its characters, but nothing in The Breakfast Club strikes that deeply.  My love for Ally notwithstanding, I can’t deny that we don’t really get to know anyone that well. 

And Hughes, though he makes some good choices, adds too many distractions to the story.  In my opinion, the film never should have left the library once the principal put them in there.  By giving us Bender running around the school and needless conversations with the principal and janitor, Hughes ruins the atmosphere of the film.  I liken this to Cast Away, which would have crashed and burned if Robert Zemeckis had ever cut away from Tom Hanks while he was on the island to go back to Memphis.  Hughes spends about 90% of the time in the library and suddenly decides to roam to the principal’s office, the gymnasium, and Bender’s locker; a bolder move would have been to keep the students in one place the whole time.

The Breakfast Club also falters because its writing is not perfectly sharp.  When Claire is berating Bender for his refusal to get involved in the school, she expresses scorn for the academic clubs of which Brian is a member, and Hughes misses the opportunity for Bender to point out the hypocrisy in Claire’s viewpoint.  This is microcosmic of the film’s problems: a few of the conversations that take place are substantive—addressing sex, cliques, popularity, authority—but the movie never really goes anywhere with them.  I never got the impression that the students have learned anything or changed in any meaningful way from their day.  When Claire eventually falls for Bender, for example, it doesn’t feel like something stemming from a change in her attitude towards him; it just feels like a sudden and unexplained plot twist.  There has been little previously to indicate that her feelings for him have softened.    

It may seem as though I dislike this film, but the truth is that I point out its flaws only because it intrigues me so much.  I think it could have been a great film, but instead it’s merely decent.  I love the set-up, and I laugh out loud numerous times in it.  I can relate, at least partially, to Brian, Andrew, and Ally, and Nelson’s Bender eventually turns around from being a mere simpleton to the character least afraid of telling the truth.  His comeback to Claire about supposedly not having any purpose at the school has real bite, and even if his parents represent a bit of a stereotype, Nelson just about makes it work, thanks to his spot-on acting in scenes such as the one when he describes his last Christmas: “It was a banner fucking year at the old Bender family.  I got a carton of cigarettes–the old man grabbed me and said, ‘Hey, smoke up, Johnny.’” 

Such scenes have edginess and power.  Unfortunately, the resolutions are somewhat pat and underdeveloped, which is why The Breakfast Club is best enjoyed with low expectations; otherwise you won’t be able to shake its tentativeness and unwillingness to make a strong statement.  There is a moment when the five students discuss whether they’ll view each other differently come Monday—but I’m not so sure they will.  The likelihood that Hughes is making a statement with that fact is all but impossible.

Grant’s Top 10 Movies

Legendary musician and producer Brian Eno once said, “Every review should have, below the name of the critic, their 10 current favorite works in the medium.  That way you have some chance of seeing their prejudices.”  Well said, sir.  To that end, I proffer my ten favorite movies, not currently but all-time.  I present this list with the conditions that I know there are countless intriguing movies I have not seen—particularly any made before the last decade—and that my tastes continue to shift.

1) Mystic River

Joy Division set to cinema—the most ferociously intense, haunting movie I’ve ever seen.  Mystic River speaks, above all, to the different ways people cope with grief (just as JD did).  The characters in this movie try everything possible to lead productive lives that have been wrecked by tragedy, and though some succeed more than others, they all tell us something about what it means to be human.  As a murder mystery is investigated, questions, desires, and regrets that have lain dormant between three old friends are unearthed.

Clint Eastwood imparts a brooding, plaintive feel upon the action, understanding how atmosphere can enhance, but not overpower a story, and he culls exceptional work from his actors.  Tim Robbins’s command of a wide and rapidly shifting range of emotions is nothing short of stunning, and the incomparable Sean Penn triumphs even all of his other performances.  Yet it’s Kevin Bacon who speaks the film’s truest and most heartbreaking lines, in a late scene with Penn that might be the most emotive scene I’ve ever seen in a movie.  The best art speaks universally and personally at the same time, and in Mystic River, everything feels connected to my life, no matter what’s going on in it at the time.

2) Closer

Closer uses four spectacularly dysfunctional relationships to make profound statements about more reasonable and, hopefully, more common ones.  Asking questions most movies don’t want to touch, it makes articulate observations of the relationships among its four characters applicable to our everyday lives.  The actors and script each evince their extraordinary skill by quietly showing us that, behind the characters’ betrayals and brutal words lie a vast expanse of pain and hurt—even if they don’t want to admit they’re feeling those things.

Closer has a reputation for being depressing, but since everyone gets what he or she deserves, I see it more as a warning than a suicide pill.  It’s not really about the loneliness that touches everyone in it.  It’s about how much people who have been hurt in the past are willing to risk again, how much a failure to resist sexual attraction taints one’s character, and whether any relationship can succeed without significant flaws.

3) Good Will Hunting

An unfailingly sincere movie, and thus one that is quite easy for the sarcastic and ironic to mock.  Yet the sincerity in this movie carries along with it some implosive drama.  Matt Damon and Robin Williams give career-best performances as, respectively, a math genius whose life is going nowhere yet is frequently on edge, and the worn-down therapist who helps him connect with what’s important.  The riveting final third of the film, featuring sparkling scenes between these two as well as the other side characters, is everything it should be: provocative, intelligent, assertive, well-acted, and always very real.

4) Saving Private Ryan

The reputation of Steven Spielberg’s epic, set during World War II, precedes it, but the hype is all worth it.  The famous opening 20 minutes of war footage will leave you wishing your heart rate would subside even while your eyes are spellbound to the screen—it’s unimaginable, chaotic, and easy to follow all at once—but the movie truly becomes great with the way it handles the rest of its story with such humanity.  As eight men, led by Tom Hanks’s John Miller, search for one missing soldier, writer Robert Rodat imbues a philosophical tone upon the material, raising questions about fighting that are not easily answered.  Finding Ryan isn’t the point; the point is what Miller’s men think about it, what Miller does while executing the mission, and what Ryan says when told he can return home.

5) Children of Men

Lead actor Clive Owen has an affinity for playing characters who derive strength from destruction occurring around them (Closer, Croupier), but here it is the rest of the world that has fallen apart while he ultimately finds a measure of decency and redemption.  Showing us what would happen in a world with no children, the explosive Children of Men uses mature filmmaking to study the human condition.  In the jaw-dropping final ten minutes, as hope intermingles with despair and Owen looks towards the future, the film achieves an emotional resonance few can in their entire running time.

All the touches from the hand of director Alfonso Cuaron, who also co-wrote the screenplay, have a revelatory effect.  Even when you don’t think he’s doing something, he is.  Sean Penn himself said the movie “is arguably as well-directed a picture as there’s ever been.”  I can’t give it any higher praise than that.

6) Garden State

A quirky, unconventionally smart film written and directed by star Zach Braff, Garden State captures 21st century ennui perfectly.  Braff plays Andrew, an emotionally blank, marginally successful actor who’s drawn home for the first time in 9 years with the news of his mother’s death.  There, he meets old friends who aren’t much more productive with their lives yet still enjoy it—something he’s forgotten about—and one special new one, played by Natalie Portman.

Culling strong performances from Portman and Peter Sarsgaard, Braff constructs an often hilarious and always touching portrait of 20something loneliness.  The film has tiny flaws, but Braff deserves praise for his underlying message that being able to feel something is better than avoiding pain.  As he tells his father, “We may not be as happy as you always dreamed we would be, but for the first time let’s just allow ourselves to be whatever it is that we are…and that’ll be better.”

7) A Beautiful Mind

What’s more important in life, truth or beauty?  That question forms the heart of A Beautiful Mind, the story of the life of brilliant and troubled mathematician John Nash.  The film explores the head, heart, and psyche of its character with an excellent script given even more depth by Russell Crowe’s superb lead performance.  The film is both taut and comprehensive, avoiding becoming another rote biopic that merely sketches biographic details by letting us into Nash’s world and that of his closest friends.

8) Cast Away

Like Children of Men, Cast Away takes a simple but devastating hook and uses that, and its symbolic main character, to make profound and poignant statements about human nature and the world at large.  After being marooned by a plane crash, Chuck Noland (Tom Hanks) faces a deserted island and little chance of ever seeing the real world and his fiancée Kelly again.  The film speaks to the ability of the human spirit to motivation itself to action even when all seems hopeless, but it is defined by its final act, after Chuck returns home to see how life has changed for everyone else while he was away.

His scene with Helen Hunt at her house is about as sad as movies can be, and he’s left to wonder whether it was even worth it to get off the island.  There is no Hollywood ending here, no reassuring words from anyone that life will all go back to normal now, no triumphant return to Kelly; but the final frames perfectly articulate, without words, the present status of the life of someone who wants desperately to find a reason to keep living.

9) American Beauty

With a pitch-perfect tone of quiet desperation, American Beauty lulls you into respect and then shocks you into moments of startling recognition.  An unbelievably consistent film, it accelerates to climactic scenes you simply can’t take your eyes off, no matter how many times you’ve seen them.

Everyone in the film, inhabiting the worst aspects of the “American dream” gone very wrong, is fighting for a way out of the straitjacket flung onto them, by their family, friends, or society.  Some succeed, some don’t, and their efforts are all put together with a masterful economy of dialogue, timing, and scene construction.  Kevin Spacey’s performance lives inside of it, but everyone, from the other actors (notably Chris Cooper) to first-time director Sam Mendes and first-time writer Alan Ball to cinematographer Conrad Hall, makes a contribution that you won’t soon forget.

10) Million Dollar Baby

This 2004 Best Picture winner demonstrates precisely the power that a great movie can have—emotionally, psychologically, visually, and viscerally.  It introduces three richly developed characters—a boxing trainer, an aspiring fighter, and a former star—given rich and human performances by the actors, and it ties it all together with a stellar script.  This is the rare film that doesn’t want to be sarcastic or glib and is unashamedly emotional—and that’s before it reaches its apex.  Loses points only because it’s not quite so re-watchable and some of these others.

What’s so remarkable is how strong it is for its first two-thirds, before taking a right-turn and morphing, seamlessly, into something entirely different for the final act.  Million Dollar Baby lingers on the minds of viewers long after it’s over because of the way these three people’s lives interact that deeply affect all of them, for better or worse, and make it impossible for them to declare their previously dead-end lives meaningless.